


Second Hand Faith

by Cluegirl



Series: Bequeathments 'verse [1]
Category: Avengers 2012, Marvel (Comics)
Genre: BDSM, Catharsis, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Steve is a Good Top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:04:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluegirl/pseuds/Cluegirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is falling.  Even with Steve there to catch him, a soft landing is the last thing he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Wrist

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jenna_thorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/gifts).



> This story arose from the recent Jeremy Renner cover shoot for Esquire magazine. You know; the one with the rope. Jenna_thorn gave me the prompt, and a good many of the images that have wound up in this story, so I'm totally blaming it on her.
> 
> She's good for it.

Clint prided himself, always, on seeing what other people missed. 

He was the spotter of patterns, the susser of secrets; king of the big picture, prince of the niggling detail, and Penn Gillette's worst fucking nightmare. And yet somehow he didn't figure it out until he noticed that Nat was watching Cap's hands during their downtime. 

Subtle and sidelong, she watched him during the anxious and tired moments in the Quinjet, when he'd strip off his gloves and run his thumb absently over the buckle of his shield over and over and over again; during stultifying debriefings when he'd meticulously fold a sheet of paper down thin and long, then wrap it like a garrote around his fingers and _pull_ , as if he needed to feel the tension biting deep; she watched how sometimes, when Stark was in a button-poking mood, and Steve happened to be (as he so often was,) the target of choice, those hands would knot up hard, flex momentarily but then unfurl again as if he'd rather grab for that throat and squeeze it quiet than just smash the sass off of Stark's mouth. Stark never seemed to notice, but Natasha always did, and that made Clint notice that he always saw it too.

And that revelation turned out to be kind of a problem. Because that made Clint notice that he was watching Cap the same way during their missions. It made him realize that he could describe, but not quantify that snap of wrist when Cap let fly the shield, that he could calculate the crazy angles of any one throw, ricochet, and return, so long as he had a sheet of paper and half an hour to waste on math, but damned if he could copy it himself in the field. Add to that the commanding voice barking orders in his ear, the adrenaline of battle, and the nervy thrill of being quite possibly the most fragile Avenger on the team, and the odds of Hawkeye nursing a semi through any Avengers battle became fairly good. Even better if he was down in the melee rather than above; taking the hits, tasting the blood, blowing shit up face to face.

It was only kind of a problem though. Maybe more of a complication than an actual problem, if he was being honest. Clint had years of experience in watching a target without getting made, even at close proximity. Deep cover wasn't his favorite game, but he was good at it, and that meant he could watch his team leader all he wanted, so long as he didn't mind Natasha's occasional knowing smile. He didn't. He had plenty of knowing smiles on her too. It was good to know that someone knew where all your shit was buried, just in case. 

And, too, Clint could use anything at all to give him an edge in the field. Rage, resentment, sexual frustration, even the whip Stark thought it would be so hilarious to slip into his equipment bag after that stupid music video he got talked into making while on celebrity bodyguard duty hit YouTube. Clint ditched the cowboy hat but kept the whip -- no point in protesting too much when Stark was around, after all. And hey, you never knew when a 30 foot kangaroo hide bullwhip might come in handy in a combat situation, after all.

Like, say, when the Avengers had to go upstate and bail the X men out from underneath Magneto. You might have heard of him? Old dude, serious issues, manipulates metal with his brain, makes Stark piss himself and cry like a little girl? Yeah, so him. Thing about a guy like that, is he gets used to being untouchable. He gets used to his opponents throwing their heaviest hits at him, and praying they get through. He's used to attacks meant to obliterate, so an attack that's just meant to fucking hurt like a sonofabitch, keep on hurting, and oh yeah, hurt some more whenever you move again? Kinda broke his stride a little. 

Which let Thor break his ribs a little with Mjolnir, which let Stark get control of his armor again and run like a bunny for cover. All to the good. Except for that part where Hawkeye was wearing armor too. Not as much of it, but ow fuck, enough. Thing is, though, a bullwhip makes a hell of a garrote if you're in range and can get the wrist snap just right. That was a tense moment, and Clint was beginning to think he might need to ask Tony for an arc reactor of his own before the tableau broke.

And then he learned two things in one, sudden clang; first, that vibranium was, apparently, non-magnetic; second, that when something knocked that helmet off him, Magneto turned into Professor X's own private little meat-puppet. Less efficient than Loki's party trick, sure, but still scary as hell if he let himself think about it too long.

So make that three that three things; that Clint never wanted anything more to do with Telepaths. Ever again. For any reason, unless it was to test the range of the 'path's power against the range of Clint's best rifle and scope. Natasha's scary profiling skills weren't a patch on that shit.

No, four. It was four things he learned. Because after Cap had caught his shield in flight and kicked the static villain over into the waiting arms of Colossus and Wolverine, Clint had learned that Captain America could pick him up like a child in his big, solid hands, and carry him straight to the Quinjet without so much as staggering under his weight. And that Clint himself didn't have the strength just then to fight free and walk on his own... or maybe the truth was that he didn't quite want to. 

How the fuck did Cap smell so good, anyhow? He smelled like a battle -- sweat, blood, brick, leather, and the ghost of some woodsy cologne, and goddamn, that mix of smells should _not_ be making Clint's pants tighten up like they were. He shifted just a little, hissing as a hundred tiny wounds cried for his attention and lost to his cock and the whine of adrenaline in his blood.

"You hurt?" Cap asked him, hands curling just a bit tighter around Clint's ribs. It was all Clint could do to keep his game face on and not arch into the sensation.

"Yup. Fine," he said, "Just peachy. Tell me someone found my bow?"

"I've got it," Natasha answered over the comm. "Quiver's in splinters, but the bow's fine."

"Well yeah, that would be because the quiver's like ten times more expensive to replace than the bow," Stark put in, "It's tradition to break the most expensive thing Clint can find. And speaking of finding, there's my Big Green Buddy, about five miles south on I-98, all tied up with a bridge."

"Can you handle it, Iron Man, or do you need backup?" They could all hear the Hulk roaring in the distance over Stark's comm now.

"Aw, he's a daisy. I'm good. Unless Thor's bored and wants to come play patty cake."

"Aye," replied Thor, just as if he hadn't been eating dirt two minutes earlier, "The sport here is finished. I will attend you." Then came the fwipfwipfwip of the hammer winding up for takeoff, and the comm automatically filtered the rush of wind after.

"Black Widow, can you handle cleanup alone?" Cap said as the Quinjet, mercifully un-fucked-with, came into view on the parklike lawn of the school. "Hawkeye needs triage."

"What? I said I was fine!" Clint cried, tensing to struggle free.

"Yeah, I'm on it," Natasha replied over him in a voice gone ice and iron, "Don 't let Barton run. He's a wimp about iodine. Fair warning though, if that Gambit clown touches my ass again, I'm going to feed him a bullet, ok? I promise I'll do all the paperwork myself."

Clint felt Cap laugh at that; an upward jostle of shoulders, the pulse of armored flesh against his side as Cap actually held him closer in. One hand gripped his knee just above the joint, fingers digging slightly to remind him just how strong that grip could be. Clint gave a restive, futile shove against the star spangled chest anyway, and then reached up to shut off his comm.

"Let me down. I'm okay, really. I don't need medical."

Steve glanced down at that, blue eyes flicking over Clint's face and body before hardening again. "Did you know you're bleeding down the front of my uniform?" he asked as the Jet picked up their suit beacons and bio signs and opened the door. 

"It's... fuck, it's just a scratch, will you fucking let me-"

"Agent, stand down!" 

He froze at the tone. Couldn't help himself, couldn't stifle the shiver that racked through him when he realized he couldn't get a full breath, and didn't know if it was because of Cap's hands, or his own injuries. He gave a token glower as he was carried up the ramp, and sulked, "I'm trying to."

"You're-" Cap bit the word off. Then he set Clint down on the flight bench and pinned him in place with one hand as he tugged the cowl off and broke his link with the comm. "You're trying to run," he said, not an ounce of give in his face as he stared down. "What are you afraid of? That I'll find out that you taped your ribs up before we even got called out here today?"

Clint forced himself not to react, or he thought he did. Steve's face shifted just enough from challenge to triumph that he knew he must have failed. "You could feel that?" he gave up and asked, glancing at the heavy red gauntlet that pressed down his shoulder.

"I could _see_ it," Cap answered, catching Clint's chin and forcing it up. His lips were pressed and taut as he demanded, "They broken?"

Clint shook his head. Jerked it, really, since the grip on his chin didn't ease at all. "Just bruised."

"And if they had been?" Clint blinked, fairly sure how he was supposed to answer, but not quite sure how he should. Cap glowered again. "If your ribs had been broken, would you have still come out on this mission without letting your team know you were operating under diminished capacity?" His grip on Clint's chin tightened, a brief flare of pain before the man remembered to curb his strength. "Would you have let us rely on strength, speed, and resilience you did not actually have to offer?" 

Well fuck. This kind of shit never used to happen when he worked alone.

_"You know it did,"_ whispered the ghost, just that hint of exasperated annoyance coloring his voice. A warning for him alone, because Phil never had busted his chops in front of an audience.

Clint shut his eyes to hide the flinch. He couldn't do this. He couldn't risk losing the Avengers, his place on the team; not with SHIELD a haunted mire of guilt and suspicion for him now. If he lost this, he'd have nowhere left that he could go. Nowhere but down, and there was suddenly a whole hell of a lot of down than there'd ever been before. He shifted against Cap's grip and sighed into surrender. "Not anymore."

"Damn straight," Cap agreed, and yanked the zip of Clint's uniform all the way down. 

He yelped, tried to struggle, then tried to make himself not struggle while his team leader stripped the jacket away. Not that it mattered what he did anyhow: Cap was stronger and faster than him on a good day, and on a bad one, he apparently had no compunctions about using Clint's own handcuffs to secure him to the cargo railing while he went for the med kit. This was a bad one, not that Clint's cock thought so when the handcuff bit at his wrist bones with cool precision and no sympathy at all.

There was a time when Clint would have picked the lock and been out the hatch before Cap got back, injured and on probation or no. Just to prove he could. Just to prove that he could not be trapped anymore, could not be put at anyone's mercy again. That Clint hadn't survived Loki taking first SHIELD, and then Phil away from him, it seemed. The Clint who was left sat docilely and waited, hating himself for being turned on, hating himself for giving in to the comfort of letting someone else take care of him now, because it wasn't the right someone.

It would never be that someone again. But out of all the someone else's it could have been, he had to admit that Cap was in his top two. Maybe higher, considering his prick's opinion on things. 

Goddammit.


	2. Taking Up Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve has learned to spot it when a man wants to be taken in hand.

Steve had led the Howling Commandos for around two and a half years before the crash that put him in ice. It had taken all of two months of that before he'd learned just what it looked like when one of his men was over the line and hoping to be caught at it before he went too far. 

It wasn't shell shock, and it wasn't simple cussedness, the way some guys needed to be set down hard sometimes. He didn't know a good word for it, but sometimes during the quiet times when leave was a month or more away and Hydra wasn't within punching range, there could arise a burning _need_ for something in a man's eyes, in the line of his jaw, in the tone of his voice. And if he wasn't taken in hand quick, he'd pick a brawl in the town, or the mess, or the bunks just to get himself hauled back into line. Steve had learned how to spot it pretty damned quick.

It had taken him longer to figure out how to _get_ such a man back in line though. Phillips' solution of shouting, threatening, and then assigning KP wasn't helpful, and neither was Peggy's approach of public humiliation until the fellow straightened out. Bucky's way had been better, safer, saner in a crazy kind of way. "Sometimes," Bucky said, "A guy don't _want_ the carrot, Steve. Sometimes it's the stick he really wants, and he'll get someone hurt trying to get it." 

Steve had thought that was nuts at first; he'd been beaten up, beaten down, and knocked around too much to even imagine someone wanting that, let alone needing it. Bucky had promised him it was different when it came from a friend, from someone you could trust. Since Bucky was that person for Steve, he took it on faith, and looked to the undeniable results for proof that, even if Steve didn't understand it, his friend was right. The stick was sometimes what a soldier really did want, so long as the carrots could still be there when the welts healed up.

If the Army had known about it they'd all have been facing court martial of course. So Steve made sure nobody outside the squad ever caught wind or whisper. Bucky was the stick man, leaving the carrots to Steve, who couldn't quite get past his distaste for the strong beating down the weak enough to be anything that close to a bully. Buck said the squad trusted him, that they'd know the difference, but Steve… he just hadn't been ready to see himself that way. So he trusted that role to his second, and between them they could keep the squad straightened out, pulled to center, and reliable, no matter how long it had been since they'd last got to blow something up. The problem couldn't be solved, maybe, but Buck and Steve kept it in line, and nobody outside the Commandos ever needed to know.

So Steve hadn't missed that Hawkeye was spinning up. He'd seen the archer's risks escalating, and he'd seen Natasha talking to him after each near miss, hushed and intense in whatever corner they could find. He'd figured she knew what to do, just as Bucky had, and had left her to it. He could be the threatened stick to her coaxing carrot if that would help Clint get square with himself. Steve had his hands full with trying to teach Tony how to be part of a team most of the time anyhow.

Only it hadn't helped. Clint hadn't reeled back in -- if anything, he'd spooled farther afield. It hadn't been until Steve had watched Hawkeye throw himself bodily at a mutant who had taken down the Hulk not twenty minutes earlier that he'd realized just how far gone the man had to be. Then, when he felt with his own hands the tape around those ribs, had seen the flickers of desperation showing through Clint's habitual front of sarcastic cheer -- when Natasha had asked Steve to make sure Barton didn't run, he'd realized that there was no stick, and without it all the carrots in the world wouldn't matter.

And that meant he might need to figure out how to be both before it was too late.

That meant he needed to see what he was working with. Luckily, Barton was usually the one who took care of the restraints when they made captures. His handcuffs were stronger than standard issue, and the lock was trickier as well, not that it should have made a difference with an escape artist like him. The fact that he sat still and waited for Steve to get out the medkit when he could have slipped the cuff and run for it was telling, and also encouraging; Barton was twitchy, sweaty with pain, and grinding under an anger that couldn't get out of his skin, but he could still trust Steve this much. Steve could work with that.

There had been less for Magneto to work with on Hawkeye's uniform than Steve had feared. The shrapnel was on the large side, and while the wounds were bloody, they weren't deep. Steve got most of them out with tweezers while Barton ground his teeth on a glove and cursed into the leather. He didn't really flinch until Steve picked up the scissors and began to cut away the bandages he'd taped down over his ribs.

"Easy," Steve ordered, pressing a hand to Barton's sternum. "There's some metal underneath. Can't get at it through all this. You keep hold of that glove till we're done." The skin beneath his palm was vibrating with stress, and for a long moment, Steve thought the wildness in Barton's blue eyes would give way to panic. But then he hissed in a deep breath, his ribs swelling between Steve's fingers in a way that just _had_ to hurt, and he nodded. "Good man," Steve said, not missing the way Barton's eyes flashed open again at the praise, but trying hard to seem oblivious. Trust was a shy thing, after all. 

The bandages came away, showing Steve a story in welt and scar, bruise and blood; a story he hadn't quite expected, but one that he couldn't say he was surprised to read there. There were angry welts running the length of Barton's back, from the crown of his shoulders to where they disappeared into his pants -- too widely spaced, too evenly chaotic to have been anything but deliberate. Underlying these were shining strips of scar that spoke of long, open tears in the skin -- not cuts, no, nothing so clean as that -- these were rips that would bleed, the kind that couldn't help but scar before they could heal. Here and there stood a curl of scar to mark where a bullet had been, or maybe a burn if the surface was no bigger than a cigarette. 

And then there were the ribs. Steve had to take his time wiping the blood off before he could trust himself to look too closely at those bruises. Especially the ones that clearly showed shoelaces. Barton went still when he felt Steve's hand curl over the area, as if he was afraid to breathe. That helped Steve to keep his own breathing under control, to let himself feel the skin's heat and swelling, and to judge it against the smooth muscles nearby. He ran his hand around to the front, gently depressed the ribs to be sure they answered smoothly, murmuring apology when Barton hissed. Barton mumbled around the glove again, but subsided as Steve picked up a fresh bandage roll and began to cover the livid bruises up once again.

When he was done, he stood and reached for the right arm he'd handcuffed to the cargo rails. The relief rolling off Barton when Steve's fingers closed around his wrist was palpable, and he almost felt guilty for letting him sag into it when this was so very far from done. Instead of unfastening the handcuffs though, Steve unbuckled the bracer that protected his wrist in combat… and hid from view exactly what Steve had thought he was going to find there.

Barton _whined_ , high and tight through his nose when Steve gently, carefully brushed his thumb over the rope burns. Then Steve plucked the glove from between his teeth and asked, "Who did this?" When Barton took too long considering his answer, Steve figured the truth might need a nudge. "If you were just brawling, your uniform wouldn't cover all the marks. And if you hadn't wanted this," he brushed the welted wrist again, "you'd have been out of the ropes before it left a trace."

"Yeah, so I asked for it," Barton dared, boosting his chin. "Got my money's worth, too."

"Not the question I asked," Steve said, dropping the glove into Barton's lap. The man only looked mulish… and maybe hopeful? "Who, Clint?"

He didn't imagine the flinch, though it made it no farther than Barton's eyes. "I don't know his name. Didn't ask."

Steve nodded, unsurprised and unimpressed. "Well, whoever he is, he's an idiot and he does not know what he's doing." He strapped the wrist bracer back into place and worked the buckles up. "Don't go back again," he said once he'd finished.

Barton's eyes narrowed as he watched Steve stow the med kit and pull a sweatshirt out of the locker. The expression could have been challenge, or suspicion, but his voice, when he tilted his head to ask, was almost sly. "That an order, Captain?"

Steve threw the shirt at him. "Does it need to be?" 

The corner of Barton's mouth twitched up, but whatever he might have said, the roar of repulsors dopplering over the Quinjet drove the words away. Barton flicked a panicked glance at the handcuff, then at Steve, who was already stripping his own gauntlet away to press his thumb on the print-reader by the hinges. "We'll talk about this later, Clint," Steve said as the handcuff sprung loose.

"Sure thing, Cap," Barton lied in answer, muffled as he struggled the sweatshirt over his head.

Steve caught his chin as it pushed through the collar and used it to tilt those rebellious blue eyes up to meet his own. "We will." Fair warning, he figured. What Barton chose to do with it would decide a lot of what came next.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Tony Stark's tinny voice cut neatly through the moment. "'Cause I can come back later if you two need some privacy. Or, y'know, a condom or something."

Barton made a rude gesture behind Steve's back, and he had to smile approval. He made a show of turning the chin in his hand from side to side, and examining the blue eyes that seemed perfectly willing to hold steady on his own. "Just checking for concussion," he lied before letting go. "Status report on the Hulk?"

"He's still down at the river feeding ducks," Stark answered, flipping up his faceplate. "Thor said he'd bring him in once we got Bruce back again. Is the Widow still out flirting the X-es?"

"I heard that, Stark," Natasha's voice came back, tartly annoyed over the Quinjet's comm.

 _"The cleanup is in hand now, thank you Mr. Stark,"_ Professor Xavier's mental voice murmured in Steve's head, and he could tell by Barton's flinch and the quick flicker of Stark's brown eyes that he'd heard it too. _"We can handle things from here, if you'd like your teammate back."_

"Better go get her." Steve tipped a nod to Iron Man, and caught Barton's hand to pull him to his feet. "We'll get the engines fired up here."

Tony shut his faceplate again, but the leer it concealed practically dripped from his chuckle as he turned to go. "Don't get 'em too fired up, boys," he said as Steve fought to keep from rolling his eyes, "I don't want to see your tail feathers or your star spangled a-"

"Fuck off, Stark," Clint cut him off with a growl, slinging himself into the pilot's seat. "Or I'll teach Steve how to use that bullwhip on you!"

"Promises, promises…" Stark and his last word and blasted away in a roar of repulsors.

Steve settled into the co-pilot's seat and watched Barton work through his pre-flight checks; sure hands, steady eyes, no rushing, no fumbling. Yes. This would work. 

"I would, you know," Barton said, not looking at Steve, not stilling his hands for a moment. He flicked over a glance and a wry smile when Steve didn't answer. "I'd teach you how. You've got the wrist for it… and hell, it'd make Avengers meetings go quicker if you had a way to shut that clown up once in awhile."

"You're on. Though it'd take more than a whip to shut Stark up," Steve chuckled back. "Duct tape and a sock, maybe..." 

Barton laughed, a loud and startled sound. "Ball gag?"

The comm buzzed to life around Stark's voice, shouting, "I CAN HEAR YOU, YOU KNOW!" 

Barton grinned. "Try not to get too excited."


	3. Back Into It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patience is a sucky virtue. Also, Steve is _killing_ him!

Steve had the mechanics down in no time flat. This was no surprise to Clint -- after all, he'd been watching the man out of time adapt on the fly to three quarters of a century's pop culture and history, SHIELD's extremely flexible definitions of what anybody needed to know about anything, and Tony Stark's mighty, bouncing daddy issues for months now. Cap was good at learning things, and he was even better at making it seem like he'd always known how it was done. That was why _he_ was the Captain.

That made it easier to remember why Clint was doing this. Why he was letting this happen… wanting this to happen. Needing it. 

Phil was gone; that safety net was cut, folded neatly, and buried. Not coming back, no matter how many times Clint played chicken with the ground. Nat loved him in her way, but she didn't have what he needed in her -- not after all the times when she'd had to use sex as a weapon in the field. He 'd asked her once, but loved her too much to ask it again. Cap's intervention had pointed out to Clint that he was using up his near misses at an unsustainable rate, and that reckless and suicidal were separated only by the detail of giving a damn about anybody's pain but his own. 

Clint still gave a damn. He still wanted to give a damn. He still wanted to be a hero.

But when his bones filled up with cloudy, ice-rimed memories and mocking laughter, new crimes overlaying the old, new cuts slicing through ropes of scar so old he couldn't remember them all, Clint could think of nothing else to beat them back. The one thing that had always worked, whether he'd been weathering fists or feet or endless fucking paperwork, had been this measured, controlled surrender that Phil had taught him. And Phil was gone now.

When things came unraveled in the field, it was always Cap who knit them back together, wasn't it? When the team got blindsided, it was Cap who guided them through. So when Clint put the object of his undoing into those big, broad hands and told him how to make it sing, he knew he was going to be all right. And he was. Just the sound of the leather's hiss and slap across the gym's floor was enough to settle him, to hush the clawing anxiety that had been at Clint's throat for months now, and build it into a slow, patient curl of heat under his belly instead.

Clint hadn't known this part of him knew how to be patient. It was startling, and it was gratifying, and it was, frankly, a little scary. It had always been Phil before, reining him in, shutting him down, bringing him to heel before the static and rage and fear inside him could fuck anything up too badly to be fixed. But now he found he could wait. He could watch Steve lay the whip out like a red carpet in one subtle flick, watch him trace the air with speed and heat, and knock twenty coke cans flying with surgical precision, with perfect grace; he could set those cans up in endless patterns over and over again, dole out murmurs of correction or praise as the heat inside him pulsed and grew and wanted… but somehow never boiled over.

He wasn't in charge here, that much was obvious. He was the teacher, but the student ruled this particular classroom, demanding more when he felt ready for it, refusing to be led onward when he wanted more time with one particular trick or other. Like the whole damned week he spent perfecting the snap-and-wrap trick. Clint had just about snapped over that -- not so much out of boredom, as out of fucking _envy_ for the goddamned boxing speed-bag that Cap was practicing on. The red leather would squeak and bulge under the whip's snare every time, jerking against the twining force and the strangled velocity like a throat. Clint lost his own breath just watching, found himself light headed, hard, and damned near hateful in heat. 

But Cap hadn't risen to needling then, not beyond to level a silencing command with those sky blue eyes he had. Eyes that should have reminded Clint of slavery and debasement, of betrayal, but somehow just made him think of high winds and open air. He'd said only once, low and resonant, "Not yet, Clint. Just wait." And then he'd turned his attention back to torturing the speed-bag and his teacher for another two hours while Clint stewed, and yearned, and waited.

That day been the first time Cap had kissed him. Clint had seen it coming, had read the signs in the man's proximity as they cleaned up the carnage of the lesson, had known that the trapezes were swinging, and soon someone would jump. But he'd honestly expected it to be him who made the move. He'd been thinking of what excuse he could use to get himself inside the Captain's impressive reach, invade his personal space and put them chest to chest, chin tipped up in a dare, lips quirked just the right shade of 'shut-me-up' smirk to make him-

He hadn't realized just how fucking _big_ Cap's hands were until one of them cupped around the back of his head and snared him into a stumbling turn that ended on the very lips he'd been imagining. They weren't soft. For a moment, fear knocked every shred of warmth out of Clint, replaced it with deadly cold and razors and the reflex to strike for freedom, for escape with all he had. But the smell of Cap's… of Steve's cologne as his tongue slipped in on Clint's gasp; of tomato soup and coffee on his breath; of saddle soap, leather, musk and hunger on his skin; these things wound around his first shocked breath, and Clint was uncoiling just like that. Up on his toes, spine drawn back like a plucked string over Steve's hand, his arms spanning forward around Steve's neck, his mouth yielding to the press of tongue and snare of teeth, his breath entirely forgotten beneath the onslaught.

Until suddenly, smoothly, it was over. His lips gaped to cool air instead of a scorching tongue, and his feet flattened to the tiles as Steve set him upright, taught his spine to hold him again, and anchored him to the ground with two big hands and a canny stare.

"How are your ribs?"

"Yeah?" Clint breathed.

"Your ribs," Steve said, moving his hand to explain the meaning of the word with a firm, but oddly gentle caress down his side. Clint shivered and gave up the moan he was sure Steve wanted to hear. "Are they still hurting you?"

He shook his head. "No, but you are _killing_ me, Cap."

"No," Steve had answered with a smile that was far too knowing for the great big boy scout of a man who wore it, and those fingers were curling under the side of Clint's shirt, tugging it upward before he could think of a single reason why that might not be the best idea anybody'd had all day. "The point is not to, I think," Steve said, turning them both so that Clint faced his reflection in the gym's mirrors, and could not miss the mottled green and plum that still ranged across his side. Steve's hand ghosted over the marks, just touch enough to raise gooseflesh and draw Clint's nipples up taut to the sultry air. "Not just yet, Clint," Steve murmured in his ear, smoothing his shirt back down into place. "But soon. Soon."

And then he'd walked out without a backward glance, just as if his own cock hadn't been a bar of iron against Clint's ass just moments before. And for some reason Clint had simply not been able to explain even to himself, he _hadn't_ shoved his own hand down his pants the instant the gym door closed. He could have, hadn't been forbidden to… but he thought maybe Steve would like it better if he waited. He had a choice, and Steve seemed to have a preference, and that was how, instead of taking that bleeding edge off, Clint had finished picking up the shattered cans in the gym, coiled up the whip into its oiled bag, and then gone down to the kitchen for something to eat. 

Ladies and gentlemen -- this was, apparently, his life.


	4. Red Right Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve can read the signs. He's just waiting for a specific one.

Steve knew it would be soon. He could feel it in the way Clint's jokes got meaner and cruder, but a glance from him could make the man pull back. He could see it in the way Clint managed to sit by him when possible during SHIELD briefings or movie night, even when there was a high, solitary seat available. Could sense it in the silence that filled the gym when he practiced with the whip now, and in how Clint seemed to have nothing more to teach there, but still came down to watch every single day.

It would be soon. Steve had talked to Jarvis about the healing rate of Clint's ribs, and he knew the bruises there were only color now rather than pain -- the bones beneath sound and elastic as they should be. No danger from that quarter. And he knew that Clint thought he was ready for it -- Steve didn't miss the targets anymore, whether they were cans, balloons, tossed coins, or even Jarvis' holographic starfighters. He had the complexities of aim, balance and speed wound into his sinews now, and even when he was distracted, his arm knew what it was doing.

If he'd had to put it into words, Steve would have had a hard time saying exactly what he was waiting for, but eventually he'd have settled on this; Steve was waiting for Clint to actually _be_ as ready for it as he thought he was. He was waiting for that hard nut of fear he could still see in the man's eyes to finally uncurl.

He knew it would be soon, but he hadn't expected it to happen during a battle.

Loki had apparently decided that Midgard would be improved by the presence of dragons. In his mind it seemed that insects were the logical jumping off point for his masterpiece, which is how Battery Park came to be overrun by thirty-foot long, armor plated, gold hoarding, fire-breathing wasps. Natasha was the first to go down, and though the Hulk ripped the wings from the one that stung her, and got her clear of the fight at once, her comatose state was fair warning to the others of the peril.

It was also the shove that Clint apparently needed. He'd been silent on the comm almost from the instant Thor had told them Loki was there; cold and hard about the eyes when Steve sent him aloft to gauge the swarming patterns and find them a weak spot. He'd sworn, brutal and low in Hungarian when Natasha had gone down, but that had been his only sound, aside from the singing howl of his bowstring and the whirr of his cycling quiver.

Tony and Thor were filling the comm with more than enough noise to cover the lack. Jarvis was streaming analysis to Tony and the rest of them that looked like it would keep them even with the swarm for awhile, at least -- until another of them went down, anyway. 

"Steve." 

He actually jumped at Clint's voice in his ear. Missed his grab for the shield on its return, and had to duck out of its way.

"Steve, I see him." Clint's voice drowned the other chatter when he spoke -- a solo link, for no one's ears but his. "He's on the big red one."

Steve squinted up, spotting shadowy black-haired riders on dozens of the monsters that were still left. "You sure it's him." Of course he was sure. Of everyone in the world, the one who could see through Loki's party trick would be Clint. "You got the shot?"

"No." Steve did not imagine the taut anguish in that word. "I can get to him though. And I've got an idea."

Another wasp, this one black, smaller, and blindingly fast, arrowed down at Steve. He barely got the shield up in time, groaning at the weight of it. The abdomen curled around the shield, stinger jabbing at him like a stiletto until Steve smashed the shield, edge first against the ground. The vibranium went through the wasp's abdomen like a hot knife, and it fell into twitching, flailing halves.

"Steve, _please!_ "

He looked up, spotting Hawkeye's head, a smear of shadow over the edge of the building above him. An enormous red wasp-dragon hovered below, surveying the chaos from the vantage of a would-be king.

"Do it," he said, and turned to leap after a lumbering yellow-green monster that had a limp policeman dangling from its legs. He wouldn't watch the drop. His upturned face would not be a clue to warn the wily Asgardian of his impending payback. He wouldn't see it if Hawkeye missed… but he knew without a shiver of doubt that he would not. 

Later, when they all watched the footage from Iron Man's cameras during the debriefing, Steve saw the dripping stinger in Clint's gloved hand as he fell, the wasp's venom sac trailing after like a grisly party balloon. He saw Loki's smug expression slide into shock as Clint punched that stinger through his leather covered chest and crushed the poison bladder under his arm to release its load all at once. He saw Loki's eyes dilate, roll back into his head as his own weapon laid him limp and low, and damn didn't that feel good after a scrap like that?

He looked to the chair beside him, where Clint was not watching the video feed, but rather was watching him, waiting. Then he nodded once.

This time the smile Clint gave back started in his eyes, and stayed there.


	5. Hand Over Fist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whip didn't answer to force -- Steve learned that straight away.

"That's not nearly enough line," Clint said from behind him, his voice taut beneath the jibe. Steve just caught the other end of the rope as it fell across the girder and tugged both ends until they evened out at about the height of his waist. "Seriously, you don't even have enough for the knots."

"There's plenty," Steve answered, and beckoned him over. "Take hold." He offered the ropes, and smiling when Clint caught them up with both hands. "We're not bothering with knots," Steve said, looping the rope around Clint's coupled wrists and then winding a spiral down around his arms until the line ran out. He secured the end with a sloppy, loose half-hitch, then caught Clint's chin to tip his dubious glance upward. "Not this time."

"I could get out of this in my sleep, you realize," Clint snarked, but his eyes were all heat and hunger.

"That's the point," Steve answered gravely. "You're not here because you're trapped, you're here because it's where you want to be. When you don't want to be here anymore, you let go the rope, and all of this stops."

Clint swallowed, his grey eyes flicking away, then quickly back, as though to hide the flash of fear that rose into them at Steve's words. "All of it?" he asked, sounding brave, small, and cold.

"Not all," Steve answered, and turned Clint in place so he could wrap his arms around his bare shoulders, murmur his answer to the short, wild hair at the crown of his head. "just this," He tugged the end of the rope. "and this." He raised the whip into view, then brushed the braided leather down along the ridges of Clint's belly just to feel his skin jump and shudder, and to hear the hungry sound that slipped out on his gasp. 

Then he stepped back, laid the whip out along the floor with a gentle slap, and waited for Clint's reflection to open its eyes in the mirror. "I'm trusting you," he said, and cast a meaning look at the yellowing bruise that was still just visible over Clint's ribs. "Don't let me down."

Clint swallowed, a shiver coursing the length of his body before he turned it into a nod. "I won't, sir." Then he closed his eyes, pressed his forehead to his arms, and relaxed into waiting.

_Who's got who on the ropes now?_ Steve wondered for a giddy moment as a lifetime of bullies crowded, heckling into his memory. _Go on, big guy, take your best shot…_ Then he tapped his own chest with two fingers, just where he wore his white star, just where Erskine's last touch had landed like a hot brand on the day his life changed. He could feel his heart racing, but he wasn't about to start running away now, when Clint needed him. 

He lifted the whip from the floor in a wave and flicked it at the heavy bag that hung to Clint's right. It slapped the canvas with more noise than force, but the impact was enough to set the bag's chains rattling. The noise made Clint's whole body jerk taut in confusion. He hissed a gasp through tight-clenched teeth, arched forward as if the blow had bit into his skin after all. Steve smiled, and landed two quick lashes on the bag to the left, and just as the shock-tension began to fade from that scarred back, he put the third stroke right across it.

Clint arched up so hard his toes came off the floor. His arms bunched, fingers knotted bloodless to the rope, his shoulders flexing as if invisible wings were trying to lift him into the air, but his face … his face looked as if he could suddenly see angels. _Be not afraid…_ Steve thought, ridiculously. Then he snapped the leather back into flight once more.

He landed twenty strokes, less than half of them to Clint's skin, before he stopped. Clint was panting now, sobbing great heaving gulps of air that sounded as if a part of him was breaking free and falling away with each breath. His skin was shining with sweat between the welts, streaked and trembling the way horses did when the flies bit. Steve put a careful hand to Clint's collarbones, and he jerked as if he'd been lashed again. But then he crooned, dazed eyes fluttering open, pupils blown wide and unseeing. His weight sagged into Steve's palm like he would curl up there and purr if he could. Steve could feel Clint's heart beating through the bone and muscle, could _see_ his racing pulse in the way his erect cock twitched and strained beneath his sweats. It wasn't too much. Not yet.

"Doing well," he said, satisfied with the needy whine in Clint's throat when he pressed his chest close to the sweaty, welted back and laid a single kiss on his temple. Steve pretended he wasn't hard himself, that he didn't want to rock up against Clint's rear just to feel the muscles clench against him, pretended he didn't wish they were both bare to the skin and sliding. That wasn't what he was there for, he thought as he backed away to begin the second round. 

The whip didn't answer to force -- Steve learned that straight away. All the muscle in the world wouldn't make it bite harder, or cut deeper; the whip was all about aim, range, judgment and finesse, and that was why he could trust himself do this. It was care that made this work, not power, and because he cared, Steve could use this length of braided leather to strip away the rigid scars Clint had been carrying since his Faith died in the skies over Manhattan. Steve had guessed that it had to have been Coulson who gave this to Clint before, and he tried, as he worked the lash between skin, canvas, canvas, floor, skin, air, skin, to remember the gentle quirk of the agent's smile, the kindness in his eyes, the quiet distress flickering there when Clint's face and data would appeared on the Helicarrier's watching monitors.

Steve knew grief, even when it was hiding in plain sight. He also knew grief when it twisted and dangled like a lure from a bind of hemp, bent to the kind of pain that could make a man forget every ounce of loss and guilt and choking, silent anguish that went on forever because it just couldn't fit _into_ words. Steve remembered that kind of pain all too well, and in a way he thought he could have wanted this kind of thing once, before he gave himself up to the ocean and the cold. 

But that wasn't what he was there for either; he was there to keep the peace -- or to dig it out of its grave, at very least.

Steve saw Clint's fingers release between one blow and the next, and he jerked the lash short before it could land another stroke. It flailed wildly, and the leather bit his cheek as he threw the handle away from him. Steve ignored the tiny hurt, catching Clint as his arms slithered out of the biting hemp and he sagged toward the floor. His head lolled, eyes fluttering, lips shaping unheard words, throat working around nothing as he heaved and shuddered in Steve's arms.

"I've got you," he murmured, scooping Clint up against him as he lowered them both down to the pads. Clint rolled into his shoulder, shivering, clinging. "Easy," Steve said into his temple, rocking where he sat, Clint pulled across his lap like a child, "Easy. I'm here."

"Please…" it was hardly a breath, the word shaped out against the curve of Steve's throat, but he felt his cock jump at it all the same, and then again when Clint's hips rolled just so, and fretted his erection against Steve's side. Clint's hand came up, trembling against Steve's arm, his fingers tugging, pleading.

Yes. Steve licked salt from his lips as the realization settled low into his groin. Of course, the carrot too; for them both. He shifted to free his hand, and laid his palm across Clint's belly, just his thumb slipped beneath the elastic waistband. "This?" he asked, needing the words.

Clint's eyes flashed open, a thin grey rind ringing the black centers as he fixed a desperate stare on Steve's face, and said, "Yes." Then he arched back over Steve's supporting arm, baring his throat, his heart, his velvet belly as Steve slipped in and took him in hand. Three long, firm strokes and each wrung from him more noise than any whipstroke had done. Three strokes, and then Clint was flying in his hands, cock pulsing like a beating heart, fingers scrabbling at Steve's chest and shoulders like a drowning man, Steve's own name dragged from his throat in a gurgling scream that shattered, bizarrely, into laughter. Then into tears.

This was what he was there for, he thought, and held Clint closer. This was it.

~*~

Clint was asleep, or nearly, when Steve carried him back to his own rooms.

Jarvis opened the door and managed the lights while Steve got him cleaned up, stripped of his sweaty clothing and into his own bed. It didn't seem the time to worry about showers or pajamas. Perhaps if this needed to happen again, they'd talk about it, make the arrangements and agreements and contingencies. For now, Steve contented himself with basic care; a few swipes with a damp washcloth, a glass of water and some aspirin on the nightstand, a furtive kiss on Clint's smooth brow before leaving him to sleep the wreckage out.

He wasn't surprised -- not very surprised, -- to find Tony waiting for him in the hall when he left. He had a tumbler in one hand, bourbon by the smell of it, and a can of coke in the other. Steve took the can without comment when he offered it, cracked the tab and drank deep.

"How'd it go?"

Steve shrugged one shoulder, rolling it again when the muscles complained. "Well, I think. We'll see." He took another drink then slanted a glance Tony's way. "I take it you were watching?"

"This time," Tony said, almost apologetic. "It was the only way to keep Thor from trying to break down the gym door to try and stop you. Or Bruce from busting out the Other Guy to try and stop him. Did you know that Thor can smell human blood through a locked door?"

Steve hadn't known that. He grimaced, rolling his shoulder again. "I guess I'd better try and explain-" He stopped at Tony's handwave.

"Bruce's got it. Once we got the standoff diffused and Thor figured out this wasn't some kind of assault or punishment, Bruce took him off to the game room to fill him in on the grand Midgardian tradition of 'Hurts So Good'." He ended the sentence singing. Steve didn't recognize the tune, but he cut a reproachful glance Tony's way all the same.

"That's not what this was."

"We know, Cap," Tony said, rapping his knuckles on Steve's arm as he pushed away from the wall. "But the Mortification of the Flesh is kind of an advanced topic for a beginner."

Steve snorted and finished his coke. "It's simpler than that, really," he said, following Tony toward the elevator. "Sometimes a guy don't _want_ the carrot, that's all. Sometimes it's the stick he really wants…"


End file.
